‘Ah, I see. So you tell Sir William Cecil what she tells you.’
‘No, I pass on any information to your uncle, Sir Elion D’Arvall.’
‘Who would not want to be seen chatting to Levina, personally.’
‘Exactly. As Cecil’s man, that would arouse suspicion. But there’s a certain person well known to Levina who is being closely watched at the moment, since it’s known she is very friendly with Señor Feria, the Spanish Ambassador. It’s because of this and her relationship to the Queen that leads Cecil to suspect that Spain would support her, if anything should happen to Elizabeth.’
‘You’re talking about Lady Catherine Grey, aren’t you? Do you mean Spain would help to make her Queen if...? Heaven forbid! That’s what happened to her sister, Lady Jane Grey, the Nine-Day Queen. And she was beheaded.’
‘Yes, that’s who I mean. So anything she gets up to, who she sees, who she talks to, is passed on to Cecil. Levina is very helpful there.’
Etta’s hands left his and flew to her mouth, covering it, her eyes wide, remembering that dreadful day when Aphra had not been with her. ‘Who she sees? Oh, my goodness! I saw her. With that man...what’s his name...the Earl of something...on the bed. I rushed into her room instead of Levina’s. It was so embarrassing. I told Levina about it, Nic.’
‘That would be the Earl of Hertford. Well, well. Cecil has suspected something like that for some time. He was only waiting for some proof and for them to do something seriously stupid before he tells the Queen.’
‘They were doing something seriously stupid,’ Etta said.
‘Then that’s probably what Levina wrote in the note she gave me. I didn’t get chance to read it, but passed it straight on to your uncle. Cecil will have it by now. Well done, sweetheart.’
‘But I feel dreadful, Nic. She spoke to me about it that night, warned me not to say a word. But I already had.’
‘She would. She knows that if the Queen gets to hear of it, there’ll be deep trouble for them both. Her as the Nine-Day Queen’s sister and him as the brother of Elizabeth’s former stepmother, Jane Seymour. The Seymours are still eager to get close to the throne, but that kind of connection is not allowed by the reigning monarch. It’s too close and far too dangerous. She’s digging a deep hole for herself, that one.’
Etta brought his hands up to her face to lay her cheek upon them. ‘Then I hope she doesn’t discover my part in her downfall, when it comes. I didn’t know there were people like her at court. I’m glad not to be returning. I’ve already found out more about the place than I really want to know. I don’t fit in there, do I?’
‘No, love. And apart from looks, you are nothing like your half-sister, thank heaven. I’ve seen quite a lot of her in the last few days, at close quarters, too, and I know who I’d rather be married to and take to bed. My sensitive, compassionate and adorable wife. You have little in common with her, sweetheart.’
‘Do you mean that, Nic?’
His answer came in the form of a kiss that took her mind away from those troubles of the past few days, a kiss that, had she allowed it at the Royal Wardrobe on that memorable day, might have avoided all the resistance of the past weeks that had caused so much personal heartache.
* * *
The first week of their return to Mortlake Manor kept Etta and her cousin busy from morn till night both inside the house, where some alterations had been made, and outside where the gardens had begun to change into a medley of greens. The weather was kind, allowing them the chance to take their new gerfalcons out into the surrounding parkland, with the falconer, and to use the other gift Somerville had bought them, two beautiful white greyhounds.
For the first few days, Master Leon stayed with them before returning to Sandrock Priory and his tutor, Dr Ben Spenney, to whom the news of his success with Aphra would come as no great surprise since it was he who had suggested it to his pupil. But as one guest left another arrived in the form of Dr Dee, Royal Astrologer, who found Somerville’s invitation to stay for as long as he wished highly convenient when the Queen still ‘forgot’ to pay him for his services. He was wise enough, however, not to trespass on his hostess’s generosity or to monopolise Somerville when he returned home each evening from London and Etta had no cause for complaint that she was not receiving her due share of attention from the husband to whom she had irretrievably lost her heart. For a few days, at least, it began to look as if the tribulations of the Whitehall episode were being replaced by a more normal way of life in which Etta had occupations enough to keep her mind off her failures. Not once did she hear I told you so from Somerville, and if he knew any details of the Queen’s move to Richmond Palace just round a bend in the river, he was careful to keep it to himself.
But Etta was not to remain in ignorance for long when the next person to seek asylum was her diplomat uncle, Sir Elion D’Arvall, whose lodgings at the palace were not at all to his taste. ‘All very well having gilded domes and fountains if there’s nowhere for folk to lay their heads,’ he grumbled. ‘Mind if I borrow one of your rooms for a few weeks, Etta? I won’t get under your feet.’
‘You’re more than welcome to get under our feet,’ Etta told him. ‘There’s room for your man, too. Stable your horses with ours.’
‘Thank you. Beautiful place, this. So comfortable. And you look happier.’
Etta looked rather less than content on the next day when Uncle Elion arrived with a message from Lord Robert Dudley inviting them to join the Queen’s hawking party on the following day. He had seen Etta and Aphra in the park with their falconer where the Queen and her court had flocked like brightly glittering flowers on the other side, indulging in one of the Queen’s favourite pastimes. Neither Etta nor Somerville rushed to accept the invitation, but could see no way out of it without causing offence. Sir Elion was quick to reassure them. ‘I know you’ve decided not to get involved again,’ he said, ‘but this is out of doors and very informal. And I shall be there, too, on horseback. You can stay on the fringes, if you prefer. And home is only a field away, isn’t it?’
‘I think we might have to accept, Etta,’ Somerville said.
‘Will you come, too?’
‘Of course I will, sweetheart. I want to see how the birds and hounds behave.’
‘But what if...?’
‘Don’t anticipate problems. We’ll be Lord Robert’s guests, not hers.’
Despite her reservations, there was a certain appeal to an invitation to show off her skills with the new rather heavy gerfalcon, whose speed was phenomenal. The greyhounds had been trained to take the heron off the falcon and, in the last few days, the larder had benefitted from several kills. Etta’s and Aphra’s mounts were also beautiful creatures with pure Arabian blood in them and Somerville had had saddles of Cordovan leather made, tooled and silvered with matching bridles. After Etta’s unfortunate lack of proper dress on the last occasion, he was keen for her to be seen at her best, if only to put to rest the belittling gossip that Jack Grene had put about. He was also aware of Etta’s damaged pride as she saw her well-laid plans come unstuck, so it was by his and Sir Elion’s persuasions that the invitation was accepted for the following day, with just enough time for the cousins to fix long curling plumes to the tall crowns of their black velvet hats, like the one the Queen had worn for the archery.
That same evening after supper, Dr Dee brought in his crystal scrying glass to show them something. ‘Rather disturbing, my dears,’ he said, placing it carefully on the table. ‘See what you make of it. There, take a look, my lady. See anything?’
‘Only a distorted image of myself,’ she said. ‘Do I really look like that?’
They took turns to look into the crystal globe by which the astrologer set much store, but saw nothing remarkable. ‘What did you see, John?’ said Somerville.
‘Perhaps I ought not to say, if you couldn’t see
it. But what I detected was a tall crowned hat like the one the Queen wears for hunting,’ said Dr Dee.
‘A hat? So what’s strange about that?’ they said.
‘It was strange because it had an arrow passing right through it.’ Pointing with his long well-shaped finger, he jabbed at Etta’s hat. ‘Like that.’
No one laughed or contradicted, or ridiculed. No one spoke.
Etta poured glasses of wine and handed them round while wondering if the arrow was in the Queen’s hat or hers. She decided not to ask, but when Dr Dee returned to his room to study, she asked her husband and Uncle Elion if they should warn the Queen.
‘We’re hawking, not hunting,’ Uncle Elion said. ‘We shall not be using any arrows.’
* * *
Usually so confident and determined, Etta admitted to Somerville that she could not, on this occasion, summon up any positive expectations that the Queen would show any pleasure at her presence. At best, she believed she would be ignored. Sitting up in bed, watching him cast aside one garment after another to reveal a back rippling with muscle, wide shoulders, narrow waist and neat buttocks, she rested her chin on her knees, her eyes skimming over his body as he turned to her. ‘This experience has really deflated you, hasn’t it, sweetheart?’ he said, standing with hands on hips, magnificently naked. ‘I wish it had been otherwise.’
‘Oh, I’ll recover. But this last week has been so enjoyable and now it’s being interrupted and I didn’t want it to be. Yes, I know we get to dress up and be sociable, but those people are not my friends, except for one or two, and our being there is not going to serve any purpose, is it?’ She realised at once how clumsy her words sounded and how selfish her thoughts. ‘On dear, that came out wrong,’ she said. ‘Of course it will serve some purpose, my lord. It will show them how generous my husband is to me and my cousin. We shall outshine them all and I shall make sure they all know what a splendid house we have on the banks of the Thames. And Uncle Elion will agree with me.’
As she spoke, the look of pain in his eyes was replaced by a smile that creased his face. ‘I think you’re getting to like Mortlake Manor, are you not?’ he said, approaching the bed. ‘But one day of being sociable now and then is no bad thing. There will be times this summer when we shall have to entertain and be entertained.’
‘Yes, of course, my lord. And I shall not mind that at all. Your friends and fellow merchants will be made welcome and I shall make you proud of me.’
Sitting on the bed, he gently raked his fingers through her hair to feel the silky texture over his hands. ‘I am already immensely proud of you, my Lady Somerville. And don’t concern yourself about Elizabeth. Tomorrow, as I said, we are Lord Robert’s guests.’
She moved her face closer to his, placing her arms across his shoulders. ‘So will she concern herself with you again?’ she whispered. ‘In the way she does? Flirting with you? Accepting your flowers? Taking you from me?’
Looking deeply into her eyes, he searched for the green serpent of jealousy and, to his satisfaction, found it. ‘She will never take me from you,’ he said. ‘All that girlish flirting is what she enjoys most because it does no harm, not even to her reputation. It’s the nearest she’ll ever get to having a husband, Etta. Her father got women pregnant with that kind of behaviour, but she knows to go so far and no further. She cannot afford to do otherwise.’
‘Not even with Lord Robert?’
‘Especially not with him. He already has a wife.’
‘As you do.’ Tears of love and relief prickled behind her eyelids.
‘Exactly. Which is why she’ll never steal my heart or my body. They belong only to my wife.’
Etta’s eyes glistened with tears. ‘Your heart, my darling? Really?’
Slowly, he swung her sideways to lie beneath him on the crumpled sheets, her hair flowing around them like a pool of water at sunset. ‘You’ve doubted it, I know. But there was no need, beloved. My heart has always belonged to you. Always.’
The time for more explanations was past, for now their bodies had begun to respond to the nearness of soft warmth and caressing hands, of searching mouths and the urgent pressure of limbs. Each time this happened, Etta found something new to excite her, for he was a wonderfully sensitive lover who could gauge her mood to perfection and make every loving a joy, teasing her into a deeper awareness of the responses her body was capable of, moulding her innocence into womanliness, albeit an unpredictable Tudor woman. His soft reassuring declaration lit her fires as nothing else could, easing her away from those doubts that threatened to damage her first hesitant feelings of love.
She sensed a change in him, too, as if her jealousy had inspired him to prolong every intimate caress as he had the second time, making up for those spontaneous and often frenzied occasions that were almost over before they’d begun. So he spun his loving into a web of desire that snared her, moaning with rapture, until she could wait no longer for his tender invasion, urging him to soothe that aching place, to fuse his body to hers. Without her bidding, words filtered through her deepest sighs, speaking of thoughts for so long kept back, now released into sounds of love for him alone. ‘I love you,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know when I knew it, Nic. I should have told you before that I want you...love you...love you.’
‘The sweetest words you could ever say, my wild tempestuous Tudor woman. I did not think you could have given yourself to me without feeling a little love for me. Am I right?’
‘I thought I could, my dear lord,’ she gasped, laughing as he stopped for her to answer. ‘Don’t stop. But, yes, I loved you even then. Heart and soul I am yours. I want to bear your children. We’ve delayed for too long.’
‘Have we?’ he said. ‘I don’t remember any delay.’ His banter brought a smile into her kisses and joy into her heart as the talking stopped, for now it seemed as if he had heard everything that was important to him in the space of two or three heartbeats. Taking the cue from her, he delayed no longer in bringing her to the peak of rapture that released them simultaneously into a maelstrom where they clung, whirling in space, crying out with the intensity.
Gladly, Etta bore his full weight until, having covered her face with breathless kisses, he fell to one side, gathering her to him with murmurs of admiration. Easing her up, he held a glass of wine to her lips. ‘Sip this,’ he said. ‘I think we may have made a new little Benninck. Lie still, beloved.’
Her hand smoothed his cheek and slid downwards, but by the time it reached his ribs, she was unable to take part in any further discussion on the subject, though the angelic smile playing about her lips suggested that, as sleep found her, she might have agreed with him.
* * *
Despite Etta’s initial reluctance to accept Lord Robert’s invitation, she felt the importance of being seen with her husband on her beautiful white mare with its new expensive harness and wearing her most fashionable riding dress meant to flaunt his generosity to both herself and Aphra. Her blue-green velvet gown with embroidered cuffs, fastenings and collar set off the bright copper of her hair, bundled into a pearl-covered gold mesh caul under the high-crowned hat, her green-dyed leather gloves matching her soft boots and the green tassels hanging from the mare’s bridle. In dusky pink, known to the trade as Maiden’s Blush, Aphra was equally as lovely, and even as they rode across the fields to join the royal party, they were watched with close attention and some envy.
Lord Robert was the first to greet them with Sir Elion D’Arvall, both men heaping them with compliments and making them glad they’d made the effort when, after this, no one would ever doubt Lord Somerville’s liberality. It did not please the Queen, however, for both her current favourites to be elsewhere than by her side and Etta was able to demonstrate only once how obedient the hounds were before Somerville was summoned to attend her. But now it seemed to matter less to them, having found at last the assurances they had
both longed to hear. One more day with the court, and they could resume their new-found happiness.
The Queen, resplendent in chestnut-brown and gold, wore a white plume in her high-crowned hat, although on this occasion her magnificence was only a little more remarkable than Etta’s. Carrying a handsome peregrine falcon, she rode side-saddle as, time after time, the greyhounds raced across to the flapping herons under the falcon’s claws before they could cause more damage with their struggles. Etta’s hounds soon drew the attention of the Queen and, by a gradual process of successes, Etta and Aphra found themselves nearer to the royal party than they had intended to be. When the food hampers were undone and spread upon makeshift tables, however, both Etta and Aphra kept to the fringes of the group where the Queen sat, having decided to bring food of their own in the falconer’s saddlebags.
In the weak spring sunshine, there was no need for them to seek the shade of willows, hawthorns or alders that clustered along the banks of the river, yet as Etta glanced across at the pale green fronds where herons often lurked knee-deep in the water, she saw a movement that puzzled her. There it was again, sliding behind the trunk of a tree, half-hidden by the long sweeping branches that almost touched the ground, a man who held one arm out in front of him, taking aim with a bow and arrow at the royal party.
There was no time to shout a warning for it would not have been heard against all the chatter so, without a second thought about how to prevent the catastrophe, Etta pushed past her cousin, knocking her sideways. Then, lifting her skirts and yelling at the top of her voice, she raced across tablecloths and plates of food, between swaying bodies and hands clutching at hats, drinks, and each other, her feet treading down skirts until she reached the Queen. Launching herself at the gem-studded royal body, she fell on top of her with a shocking thud, bringing her down flat on to the grass with a shriek of warning that came just as another scream sounded from Aphra who stood some way behind her. Nose to nose with Elizabeth and with her arms around her, Etta found it difficult to extricate herself and could only prise herself upwards to turn and look at the scene of devastation, muttering, ‘Your Majesty, forgive me...a man...look...running...quick, somebody!’
Taming the Tempestuous Tudor Page 21
